‘It’s all very strange. Perhaps we had better just leave this room and get on with the others. He’ll be emerging from under his towel and wondering what we are up to.’
‘You’re right’ Amy agreed. ‘I don’t suppose that he would want us to start clearing this lot anyway. He probably has some secret system and knows where everything is.’
They closed the door and Pippin had just begun to scrub the floor in the hall when Eppie appeared. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, to have to sully the shiny newness of your floor but I have to slip out and consult with Mrs Entwistle on my dietary requirements. Whilst I am there, I shall thank her for having sent me two such willing and helpful ladies to help with my domestic chores.’
‘But, Mr Molineaux, Mrs Entwistle…’
‘Yes, yes. Mrs Entwistle. A most helpful and agreeable purveyor of what has become out post-war staple food. You would like me to pass a message on to her?’
‘Oh, no, thanks,’ Pippin said, slightly flustered.
Eppie studied the newly ordered umbrella stand with a rapturous surprise and settled for a stick with a bone handle carved into the face of a dog. ‘This one will be perfect for my mood,’ he enthused.
‘Mr Molineaux,’ Pippin stuttered. The old man pressed a black parson’s hat down over his white mane and smiled down at her. ‘Are you the Mr Harry Mullins who has written all the plays?’
‘They are, indeed, my modest outpourings. Mullins is the nom-de-plume behind which I hide from the scrutiny of this cruel world.’ He flung a white silk scarf round his scrawny neck and disappeared through the door. Seconds later, it was flung open again. ‘How did you know about Molineaux anyway,’ he demanded sternly.
‘Oh, it was a lady called Mrs Frobisher in the greengrocers. She said what a lovely man you were.’
‘Hrrmph,’ he growled. ‘Mrs Frobisher? Never heard of the woman. Another cleaner who abandoned me, probably.’
‘She didn’t look like a cleaner. She said that she was a pianist.’
Eppie stared at her for a moment then the door slammed behind him.
Pippin wiped the floor again and carried the bucket through to the kitchen. ‘Ames, those posters in the parlour. I wonder if the ones that are missing just fell down or were they deliberately taken down?’
‘I’ve no idea. Does it matter?’
‘I’m not sure, though we do know now that Harry Mullins is the same person as Henry Molineaux. I know that it is a while ago, but do you remember that Mrs Frobisher, the lady in Artingstall’s who played the piano? She told us that he had had a breakdown and that he was in Prestwich Hospital for five years. I just think that it might be interesting to know which posters had been up where the spaces are.’
‘Well, I don’t fancy searching the house for them. They could be anywhere and he might just walk back in on us. Then there would be ructions. He might seem a genial old duffer but I would imagine he could be quite fearsome if he gets annoyed.’
‘I’m not suggesting that, Ames. But I think that they keep back-copies of the Salford Reporters in the Central Library. We could search through and find out who was appearing. There is a late opening on Thursday.’
‘Oh, I can’t come on Thursdays,’ Amy said. ‘It’s our turn for the bath. It used to be the McFadyens next door on Thursday and us on Friday but my mother agreed to change so that their fancy-pants daughter could have one before she went out dancing on Saturday. Mam felt obliged to agree because it is Mr McFadyen who carries the bath down to us. The Fiddlers won’t change from Saturday because it is their bath in the first place so they’re entitled to have whichever night they choose. Nobody else in the street would change because they say their week is planned round the night when it is their turn for the bath.’
Chapter 25
The Lower Turk’s Head hotel on Shude Hill was an establishment that lacked any obvious charms. The hand-carts parked outside in workday afternoons reflected its popularity with the hard working fraternity of porters from the nearby Smithfield Market, the huge glass and cast-iron emporium of the fruit, vegetable and fish wholesale trade. The hostelry was also enjoyed, though more casually, by members of the public who had been browsing the book and the bun stalls of the nearby market or admiring the animals that looked out pleadingly from the windows of the pet shops on Tib Street.
From the early afternoon, it was also the place where Clarence Meredith held court, surrounded by his henchmen and bootlickers. It was his temporary office where porters came to pay homage and stealthily hand over a percentage of their earnings; compensation to Meredith for having arranged the issue of their operators’ licences. By bribing the clerk who issued them, the bullying Meredith had long since ensured that all applications were channelled through him. The grateful porter was then required to rent his cart from the LTH Hand-Cart Company, a flourishing operation run as a sideline by the enterprising Clarence Meredith. A failure to abide by the dictates of this unscrupulous tartar would result in a serious decline in the jobs that were allocated to them. The traders who came to buy from the market went along with this arrangement, knowing that an unwillingness to do so would result in them experiencing problems in obtaining good quality produce.
Standing across the road, Liam watched the doorway with some trepidation. He knew that the porters would soon have all left and that only Meredith, his two lieutenants and the clerk that he employed to handle the dubious cash transactions, would remain. When Liam had finally, and with a great deal of apprehension, gone to see General Fforbes-Fosdyke, he had been taken by surprise at the affable reception that he had been given. The General had talked extensively about Liam’s experiences in the war, amazing him by being well-informed about the circumstances of his head wound. He had apologised for the scurrilous remarks that his foolish son had made about Liam and his family in the mess at Imbros, and thanked him for the sterling work that he had done in strengthening morale amongst his fellow soldiers. The General had then told him that Meredith had been a Sergeant Major in his Battalion and had shown exemplary courage in saving a number of lives in the war with the Boers. When Meredith had indicated that he wanted to retire from the army, the General, along with some of his colleagues, had agreed to fund the purchase of a wholesale fruit and vegetable business. Meredith himself owned only a small stake. Everything, initially, seemed to be going well and sales had increased, but the General had been recently getting frequent reports which suggested that some of his ex-subordinate’s methods were highly questionable. He had been informed by some of his esteemed Manchester Corporation friends that some of Meredith’s activities were almost certainly illegal and that the ex-soldier was enhancing his own fortunes by the employment of threats and coercion.
He understood that Liam had been subjected to such unacceptable behaviour and that he, the General, could not tolerate being associated with activity of this nature if, indeed, it were true. He would, therefore, deem it an important favour if Liam were able to bring to him any information, in the strictest confidence of course, regarding such criminal conduct. Liam, in fairness, had managed to follow the gist, if not the detail, of what the General was asking and felt decidedly uncomfortable about the scheme. He needed, of course, to stop the bullying Meredith but he couldn’t believe that there was anybody who would be keen to put their job at risk by passing incriminating evidence about him. Certainly, nobody would be willing to stand up in court and testify against such an evil man for fear of eliciting some brutal retaliation. If the retired Sergeant Major was half as bad as he sounded, he would clearly have surrounded himself by some pretty unsavoury characters. They, undoubtedly, would be more than willing to mete out their own form of rough justice.
The General had told him that this uncomfortable partnership with Meredith was prejudicing other developments that he was seeking approval for with the Council; developments which would enable him to give employment to many out-of-work ex-soldiers. Liam had told the General that he couldn’t, at that stage, see what he could do but that he woul
d go away and think about it.
He had walked home from the General’s, stopping off to have a cup of tea with the lads on the Broughton allotments, but he had felt no nearer to a solution by the time that he got home. The lads on the allotments had favoured a direct course of action. There would be more than enough willing volunteers from Salford to “go and sort out those thick buggers from Manchester,” they had said. But Liam knew that the General would not countenance such a course of action and it would not, anyway, root out the archly dishonest and bullying Meredith. Beyond that possibility, however, he was lost for an answer.
Bridget’s response, on the other hand, had been surprisingly determined. On the one occasion that she had had any dealings with him, she said, the General, despite being distant and aloof, had shown himself to be a man of honour. ‘We must concentrate on the things that we can do rather than the things that we can’t. There is a hot pot in the pan,’ she told him, pulling on her coat. ‘I’ll be back later. I am just going to have a word with Laura. See what we know about this Meredith.’
Liam had realised that questioning his wife at that stage would have been futile. Discussions would take place within the inner sanctum of the group of females that had come together during the war to keep a watchful eye on the families in the area, helping, where needed, with a parcel of food, a soothing word or a comforting arm. It was a member of that gathering that had mentioned that Beattie worked on one of the stalls in Smithfield and may be able to offer some assistance. The following day, Beattie had joined the group and had been highly amused to find that Bridget was Liam’s wife. Bridget had been somewhat perplexed when Beattie had informed her that ‘Me, Liam and market stalls go back a long way,’ but had been prepared to accept that it was connected with some youthful exchange over a toffee apple.
The outcome of the discussion had been that Beattie would arrange for Liam’s son, Billy, to apply for a porter’s ticket on Smithfield Market. That, she had informed them, is just one of the areas where he worked an illicit scheme and Billy should be able to obtain an insight into Meredith’s activities by talking to the other porters. Bridget had been deeply concerned that such an arrangement could seriously endanger her eldest son, but Beattie had assured her that she would keep an eye out for him. Two weeks later, a very apprehensive Billy had presented himself one afternoon at the Lower Turk’s Head for a discussion with the notorious Mr Meredith. He had been told that tickets were very difficult to get unless the applicant was sponsored and that the only sponsor that was trusted by the authorities was the said Mr Meredith. Being, as he was, generous of spirit and keen to support the applications of enthusiastic young men, he made no charge for his services but it would be greatly appreciated if the young man would rent his cart from that generous supporter of local charity, the LTH Hand-Cart Company. The fee for such hire would be paid as a percentage of the porter’s daily income.
Billy later learnt that there was no viable alternative to this offer as no other carts were allowed to operate on the market. Anyone bringing his own hand-cart onto Smithfield would have quickly found his business drying up and his cart getting mysteriously damaged. And the LTH Hand-Cart Company was only in existence to support the wasteful lifestyles of the hideous Meredith and his equally unpleasant family.
Over the few months since he had started, Billy had carefully avoided arousing suspicion by conforming to the rigorous requirements of this ruling cabal. Their willingness to resort to violence as a means of achieving their aims was legendary and he had no wish to be on the receiving end of their sadistic brutality. Each night, he had come home and reported the detail of what he had seen and heard, the sums collected from Billy and his fellow porters by the Meredith team and who, in the market administration, was in the pay of that despicable man. He told how ageing fruit and vegetables were acquired at minimum prices then secreted with fresh produce to be passed off to out-of-favour customers. He described how traders had to give priority to supporting the Meredith operations or else risk an unexplained accident resulting in expensive damage to their stock or their stalls.
On occasions, having warned his mother in advance, he didn’t come home at all but opted instead to stay in the stables under the railway arches. Some of the porters who worked with the horses slept in the loft above where the animals were kept. It was here that Billy had taken to joining them. He loved the warm smell of the straw, the big, amiable beasts that nudged your pockets looking for a carrot or an apple. He would polish the tack until the leather shone and the brass gleamed. Grooming the horses until their coats glistened, using a large pad of prunella or moreen salvaged from the nearby mill, was a special thrill for him. A number of the animals, like their minders, had seen active service in France and, still bearing the scars of battle, required a more circumspect approach. The dozen or so men who had made their homes in the stables were mostly ex-soldiers, two of whom had missing limbs. With the perplexingly cruel irony of nicknames, the man with the wooden leg was called Speedy whilst the one with the missing arm responded obligingly to the sobriquet of Handy. The senior member of the group, who the others respectfully deferred to, was known as Grandpa and three were teenage lads like Billy. Harry Williams, seemingly not affronted by the epithet of Hamster, given to him in recognition of his small stature, tireless energy and pouch cheeks, had soon become Billy’s mentor and quickly proved to be a boundless source of information on the people and practices of the market. Grandpa, he informed him, smoked dried horse manure and straw in the pipe that was almost permanently stuck, bowl inverted, in his mouth. Such was his attachment to the pipe that he frequently drank tea and smoked Woodbines with it still in place.
Hamster told Billy that the eternally gloomy Cheerful, a man who spent most evenings sitting alone in a corner of the loft, drinking tea and reading books passed to him by the market traders, had good reason to be miserable. ‘He’s got a swollen bollock that hangs there like a slater’s nail bag,’ he confided. He also told Billy that Cheerful’s wife had had some connection with Meredith. She had got to know a bit more than was good for her and she had threatened to expose him. Cheerful had found her hanging from the banister rail when he walked into the house. ‘He swears he’ll get even with him one day,’ Hamster said. ‘I reckon that’s why he reads so many of those murder books. He’s looking for ideas that he might be able to use.’
Conversations were not encouraged by Cheerful and he acknowledged gifts of newspapers and books with a polite ‘thank you’ and a bleak smile. He did, however, occasionally impart information to the donkey that towed his cart ponderously around the market, delivering to a loyal clutch of shops in Cheetham and Newton Heath. Hamster occasionally overheard snatches of the one-sided conversations whilst Cheerful was stabling his old mare. He had inherited her from his father who, having lied about his age to get there, was sent home from France with a Blighty only to die after the armistice from the Spanish flu outbreak. ‘He was telling Nellie that it was his birthday on Thursday; forty years old and he had nobody in the world to share it with apart from his old nag,’ Hamster confided. ‘Poor old sod. We should try and brighten his day up for him.’
‘Well, I can borrow my dad’s posh suit if you want to take him to the Midland,’ Billy offered.
On the following Thursday evening, Billy and Hamster had waited eagerly at the bottom of the street, Hamster checking his fob watch constantly. ‘What if they forget, mate? We might be standing here all night and nobody turns up.’
‘They’ll come alright,’ Billy reassured his agitated friend. ‘There is no way that my mother will allow Dad to forget. She likes everything to be done spot on. If Dad had nipped in the Railway for a pint she would have gone and hauled him out of the pub rather than let somebody down.’
‘I can’t believe that we are doing this,’ Hamster said, rubbing his hands together gleefully. ‘Cheerful might actually live up to his name for once.’
When the truck had eventually arrived, Hamster had danced around with an
ticipation. ‘Alright, son?’ Liam asked as he handed each of them a large, steaming brown paper bag. ‘Everything go ok on the market today?’
‘Fine, Dad. Thanks for getting these.’
The far door of the truck opened and Amy appeared carrying a large square tin. ‘Here, Billy. I’ve made this for your friend to help him celebrate. Come on, then. Don’t just stand there with your mouth open. A thank you kiss is the least that you can do.’ Billy’s bashful response, however, was eclipsed by the fearful, stomach-churning astonishment of Hamster when the elegantly tall blond girl turned to him and instructed, ‘There’s no need to stand there gawping. You can give me one as well.’
The shocked Hamster, who had struggled to oblige because his small stature had conflicted with his instinctive effort to arch his equine smelling body away from the fragrant creature, was still almost doubled up with numbing exhilaration as Amy waved a cheerful goodbye. ‘Good luck, enjoy yourselves,’ Liam shouted through the cab window.
‘Who was that?’ Hamster asked, eventually recovering some degree of composure.
‘It’s Amy, my girlfriend,’ Billy explained, just a hint of pride creeping into his now composed voice.
‘She’s a stunner,’ Hamster stuttered.
‘Aye, she’s a smart girl. She takes a bit of keeping up with, sometimes, and she won’t stand any nonsense.’
In the stable under the railway arches, Billy carefully balanced the cake tin on one hand, the brown paper bag in the other, as he slowly ascended the wooden stairs into the loft. It wasn’t quite the carnival atmosphere some would have expected for a birthday celebration when Billy and Hamster carried in the fourteen helpings of fish and chips, but Cheerful was overwhelmed. It had clearly been a long time since anyone, other than his donkey, had taken much interest in him and he watched in open-mouthed astonishment as the two lads distributed the newspaper-wrapped portions along with bottles of beer that they had secreted behind some straw bales. Handy spat on his palm and wiped it down his grubby trousers before balancing the parcel on his knee, groaning with rapturous pleasure as he breathed the sharp, almost forgotten, aroma of the malt vinegar. Intense vapours, released from the vinegar as it seeped through the hot batter into the white flesh of the cod. Grandpa removed his pipe, tucking it into his waistcoat, before taking a knife and fork from his jacket pocket and wiping them on his sleeve. He chuckled quietly as he laid chips along the slice of bread that Hamster had cut from a loaf. ‘Happy birthday, Cheerful,’ he said. ‘This is a special treat to mark a special day. Hope that you have many more of them.’
Rags, Bones and Donkey Stones (Sequel) Page 23
